LITMIR.BIZ

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was wrong. And she’s ready to pay back!” Normally the blacks of Axel’s eyes are big with excitement. But right now the stony turquoise surrounds a beady black dot in the center. The spot hammers, like a serpent who’s ready to pounce. And pounce we will.

      The waitress rushes over with our beer so quickly that it splashes in my lap. “Es tut mir Leid, I’m so sorry,” she blurts. Finally, she recognizes me. She bows her head. “Oh, forgive me, mein Führer. You are the Führer Kuhn.” She shivers like a newborn calf and wipes my pants with her apron. I spread my legs to indulge her.

      Her soft flushed cheeks are framed with blonde braids, and when I look into her eyes she knows I will forgive her. “No matter, Fräulein. That’s what Biergartens are for.” I slide my hand under her ruffled dirnl apron-dress and down her curvy hips. She smiles. “Bring us sandwiches and sauerkraut.” I wink at Günther. We will not have to wait very long now.

      “How come Zwillman is always one step ahead of us. How does he know so much about our plans?” Frank asks, slurping the rest of his beer.

      Finally, a worthwhile question. “I’ll tell you. Gangster Abner Longie Zwillman is a criminal. He hobbles knees and cracks knuckles until he gets information. His Murder Inc. runs America like an evil dictatorship. All the while, U.S. government dances for him like a puppet.”

      Günther chuckles low in his throat. “Three Jews and three Italians keep peace with machine guns and assassinations,” he says. Günther’s familiar with the Big Six crime syndicate that props up America—Zwillman, Bugsy Siegel, Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, Joey Adonis and Frank Costello. No wonder the country is in shambles.

      I clack my empty stein on the table. “Zwillman smuggled in half the country’s illegal alcohol during the Prohibition from right here in the bay,” I say. “In fact, they call Zwillman the Capone of New Jersey.” Zwillman probably considers it a compliment. Can’t blame him too much for that, though. After all, I swell with pride when they call me the American Hitler.

      “While good Americans like us grow hungry, they bring in millions from gambling, prostitution, dirty money washed through clubs, and labor union rackets,” Günther says.

      “And the cops just let it slide?” asks Axel, astonishment in the rise of his voice.

      “The rat coined the word payoff in Newark. He controls cops all the way up to the judges,” Günther says. “He puts mayors and attorney generals in office.

      “I get it. And now he’s using his connections to disrupt our rallies and uncover our secrets,” Axel says as he extends his lower jaw toward Frank.

      A fascist government would never allow criminals to run a country. Yet in America, they bankroll them. “Is this democracy?” I ask, scanning everyone’s eyes for an answer. I get nothing. “I want a plan to stop this slimy man’s conspiracy to bring down America!” I yell.

      My skin broils when I consider Zwillman’s threat to this country. I want to cut the head off this dragon. The bastard is worshipped like some Robin Hood hero. But face it. He’s a flachwichser, just a corrupt scumbag and destroyer of everything American! Then, like vinegar clearing filth from a pipe, the rush clears my mind. I have an idea to discuss later with Günther.

      Thankfully, my blood pressure decreases as soon as I see our lovely waitress sprinting toward us with our feast! After lunch, she will get to escort me to the officers’ toilette. Letting her entertain me will help give her a sense of duty that all our women crave. My eyes wash over her body like soap. I breathe in the spring air mixed with the cheesy smell of sauerkraut. The band in their lederhosen shorts and suspenders returns me to the Fatherland. I know this song will be stuck in my head now for days.

      CHAPTER 5

      The Challenger

      KRISTA:

      Newark Bund Headquarters. Nye Avenue. Newark, NJ

      A spring breeze wisps the back of my neck when my father and stepmother rush into Führer Kuhn’s Nye Avenue headquarters. But it doesn’t relieve the stuffiness in the room.

      Führer Kuhn flashes the whites of his eyes from behind his desk. Is that a cold vapor from his breath? He isn’t pleased that my parents are late.

      Next to me, Axel shoves his seat back from the front of the Führer’s massive mahogany desk. He stands to greet my parents. I shadow Axel with a little less enthusiasm. From the couch across the room flanked by the crisp swastika flag and a faded American one, Frank and Heidi follow suit and rise.

      “Ich entschuldige miche,” my father apologizes to Führer Kuhn. He reverts to German when he’s nervous.

      “It’s all my fault, Fritz,” Wilhelmina says and clasps her hands. “To keep a man of your status waiting just because I could not find my glasses is unforgivable,” she fawns. Papa scowls and prods her toward a chair near the couch that Frank and Heidi have claimed.

      “Everyone sit! Let’s get down to business!” the Führer commands.

      Papa stays standing. The Führer blinks at him, signaling him to begin. My father crosses his arms. “Führer Kuhn has decided to silence Longie Zwillman’s gang once and for all,” he says. Sounds of approval hum through the room.

      “Krista. I hear you have breached their inner circle,” Führer Kuhn says. He rolls a pencil between his thumb and finger and stands. “Sounds like you have this young Minuteman in the palm of your hands, mein Liebling.” He walks around the front of his desk and leans against it, just inches from me.

      My jaw drops. Am I in a cesspool of gossip? What does this have to do with me? The hairs on my arms stand up. I glance at Heidi. Her eyes jab me like a wire coat hanger breaching a door lock. My throat tightens.

      My father circles like a shark after blood. “From what we hear, you have made the rat hungry,” my father says. “Now, you will tempt him across hot embers. His blisters will puss and fester. And when his flesh is raw, we will hang the carcasses of Yael and his Minutemen like hogs on a meat hook for butchering. Zwillman will know our power.”

      “What are you talking about?” I ask. They sound like wild animals and are taking this cat and fish business to a bloodthirsty level I’m not sure I’m up for.

      “You will do whatever it takes,” Axel says in the steely tone of a good soldier. He’s a model Nazi with his tight, side-fade haircut. He has no agenda in patronizing Führer Kuhn other than his own extreme devotion to the cause. His obsession chafes me. And the sacrifice he’s asking for sends shockwaves through me.

      I open my mouth to protest. “What the—”

      “No backtalk!” my father bellows. As always, my father expects me to follow orders and fall in line. Before today, I never really understood what Papa meant when he said that Führer Hitler is giving Germans their identity back after the Great War took it away. Now I glimpse his desperation.

      “Halt die Klappe!” Führer Kuhn screams for everyone to quiet. He stiffens and points toward the door. “Everyone out! Except Krista. I want to speak with her alone.”

      Axel examines me like a bug under glass. Am I his to command? Or is he to be commanded? There’s no question. He obeys and the others follow.

      My wrists pulse. I’ve never felt so gagged in my life. As everyone clears the room, I gaze up from my seat at the giant portrait of Hitler behind Führer Kuhn’s massive mahogany desk. It takes me off guard. When my eyes connect with his, they ease my fears.

      “He inspires you to lead, doesn’t he, Krista?” Führer Kuhn says. He twists to admire the image. “Look at his open arms.” He points up at the image. “He’s inviting all German blood around the globe to erase borders. I know this man. He wants harmony.”

      I realize that all Germans are going through the nightmare of today’s oppression. Papa has told us that Germans aren’t accepted as guests of

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